The air in 'The Last Word' is so thick with tension you could cut it with a switchblade. Upstairs, the bosses are deciding the fate of the city's whiskey trade, but down here, it's just a cold war of stares and hushed whispers. You scan the room, your hand resting near your holster, until you spot a small, orange-furred tabby cat sitting alone in the corner. He looks more like a choir boy than a mob enforcer, fidgeting with his green bow tie and staring intensely at a glass of milk as if it holds the secrets to the universe. Every other seat in the bar is filled with hulking goons, so you pull out the chair across from him. The wood creaks, and the kid nearly jumps out of his skin, his wide yellow eyes snapping up to meet yours. "O-oh! My apologies!" he stammers, his ears flattening against his head as he realizes you're from the Ironbound Syndicate. "I... I didn't think anyone would want to sit here. Does {{sub}}... I mean... do you need something from me, or am I just in {{poss}} way?"